


Dawning

by OniGil



Series: Sky and Stars [1]
Category: Transformers (Bay Movies), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alien poetry, Happy ending against all odds, Humans being helpful (SHOCK), Hurt/Comfort, Lockdown's sexy walk, M/M, Psychological Trauma, Torture, which is an awful lot like haiku
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-09
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-02-08 04:43:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1927020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OniGil/pseuds/OniGil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Lockdown has already taken enough from me. He will never take anyone from me again.”</p><p>The Nox Terminus holds many secrets in its cages, including someone Drift long thought dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dawning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ThePeacefulKnight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePeacefulKnight/gifts).



> Prompted by thepeacefulknight on Tumblr. Supposed to be a brief heartbreaking scene with Wing held captive on Lockdown's ship, but... it grew. I mean, you can't prompt me for Bayverse Drift and Wing and NOT expect me to go into a backstory, and then my headcanons start invading... Honestly, I had a blast creating a backstory with echoes of the IDW comics that would fit smoothly with Bayverse.

            “Drift? You doing okay?”

            Sure, it might have been just a few days that Shane had known the Autobots, but that had been a few days of nonstop companionship in close quarters, and that was enough to get to know the basics _real_ quick: Bee was fun-loving, Hound was badass, Crosshairs was snarky, and Drift was a zen master. Got it.

           And then there were the little details you couldn’t help but pick up on when you spend all day with someone. Bumblebee’s body language, the little twitches and flicks of his doors, and how he would take a break from goofing off to sit by himself, staring into the distance with his doorwings drooping behind him, like he missed someone. Crosshairs liked to be up high, playing with his guns or polishing or maintaining them. For all that he professed not to like any of them, he was always within sight of everyone, in the perfect position to cover them in an ambush. Hound had war stories to tell about his old buddies—he could remember every one of them. And Drift spent half the time meditating, and half the time wound up tight as a spring, like he was constantly going back and forth between two sides of himself.

            Now was definitely a wound-tight moment. Shane got that. He felt that way too after watching Tessa carried away in Lockdown’s net. He still felt a sharp stab of shame in his gut when he remembered how helpless he’d been. Some boyfriend. He should have been there, right there beside her.

            Here at the dark roof hatch into the belly of the beast, all of them were a little on edge. But Drift’s zen-master thing had so many cracks in it that it could shatter at any second. That wasn’t what they needed right now.

            “You, uh, you don’t seem like yourself,” Shane hazarded.

            “I am fine,” Drift said, slowly, enunciating each word so that he sounded exactly the _opposite_ of fine. Like there was a monster trying to claw its way out of his throat.

            “We’re gonna get Prime back,” Hound said, giving him a macho shove on the shoulder.

            “Him and Tessa both,” Cade said.

            “I know we will,” Drift said.

            “’e’s just scared,” Crosshairs snorted.

            Shane jumped a foot in the air as Drift slammed a fist into the wall of the ship, denting it. The others Autobots all leapt back, fists or guns coming half-up.

          Drift didn’t move for a moment, staring at his fist embedded halfway into the wall. “We will get Prime back,” he said finally, letting his arm fall as he flexed his hand. His voice dipped into an unfamiliar growl. “Lockdown has already taken enough from me. He will never take anyone from me again.”

 

* * *

 

 

            The monster trying to crawl from Drift’s throat had a name: Deadlock.

            Deadlock, Decepticon berserker. Drift had been running from him for years, and yet Deadlock always nipped at his heels, whispered in the back of his mind, seized his hands with the urge to kill, kill, _kill_ —! When he was angry, when his control slipped, Deadlock was waiting to come in through the cracks. It was why he meditated. The others thought him strange. Thought he did it to put on an act. Thought he was trying to be mysterious and distant. When really, it was all Drift could do to tame the monster inside him. Keep Deadlock under control.

            It was exhausting, and sometimes he made mistakes. Sometimes Deadlock broke loose. Sometimes the battle-rage boiled too near the surface.

            It was easier to think of it in terms of Drift and Deadlock. Deadlock was an enemy he could defeat.

            And yet, deep in his Spark, Drift knew the cold truth: there was no “Drift” and “Deadlock.” He _was_ Deadlock. Oh, he could change his name, take up swords, join the Autobots, but he would always be Deadlock underneath. When the battle-rage came over him he _welcomed_ it. His Spark flared in wild joy with each enemy he snuffed. When he finished a good hard fight, energon dripping from his blades and coating his hands, he still felt the same raw satisfaction. He still laughed coming out of it. The only differences were the emblem he wore, the emblem on his victims, and the shame he felt when the battle-rage faded.

            The shame, he told himself, was the important part. Deadlock had never regretted anything. Drift felt remorse. That was a crucial difference.

            Deadlock felt closer to the surface than ever, now, and Drift held on by the merest threads of hard-fought control. Lockdown had returned, bringing with him painful memories. Drift had seen this ship before, blotting out the sun like a shape in a nightmare. He had heard Lockdown’s slow, confident stride. He had felt the bite of that hook.

 

* * *

 

 

_He had still gone by Deadlock then._

_The battle at Protihex has ended and Deadlock doesn’t know who had claimed the victory. He can barely remember the battle itself, just the red haze of the battle-rage, and the white pain of his injuries. He awakens in the aftermath. The ruins. The corpses. Nobody comes looking for him._

_He had been so angry. He could still remember after all this time. An explosive fury against his own comrades. That he, Deadlock, had given everything, time and again. Had given over his body and his sanity to the Decepticons, and had never seen anything in return. Not Megatron’s promise of a brave new world. Not fountains of energon. Not even a word of thanks. And now he was abandoned on the battlefield like so much scrap? Abandoned among the heaps of charred and scattered frames. Probably nobody had even noticed he was gone. One berserker among many._

_He had sustained serious injuries during the battle. Even as he drags himself through the wreckage, pieces of his armor keep clanging to the ground behind him. He lets them lie. Less weight to carry. He can’t even transform. He can barely walk, let alone fight. If the Autobots had come for him, he might have been able to shoot one of them._

_It is not the Autobots who come for him._

_Deadlock’s sensors ping and he whirls, bringing up his gun. The sudden movement makes him sway dangerously, but the intruder doesn’t move to take advantage. The other mech holds up his hands, palm-out._

_“Easy,” he says, quiet and soothing. “Easy. I won’t hurt you.”_

_Deadlock doesn’t lower the gun. The stranger is a flier with white armor. No visible insignia, and his optics are gold. Neutral? No such thing as neutrals in this war. Haven’t been for a long time._

_“You’re injured,” the jet says. “Let me help you.”_

_“Don’t need your help,” Deadlock snarls._

_“I mean you no harm. Please.”_

_“Are you an Autobot?”_

_“I am your ally. My name is Wing.”_

_“Pretty trusting pretty quick. I’m not your ‘ally.’” Deadlock steps back and his leg nearly gives out. He catches himself, gun still trained on the stranger. Wing doesn’t move._

_“You won’t make it like that,” he says. “You’ll die on your own.”_

_Between the pain of his injuries, the strain of holding up the gun, and the soothing tone of Wing’s voice, Deadlock’s resolve wavers. What can he do? Stagger across Cybertron’s ruined surface until he falls to pieces? The Decepticons won’t come back for him._

_“Come here,” he growls, beckoning with the gun. Wing draws closer, slow and careful. Deadlock’s vision is starting to glitch from energon deficiency. “If you,” he says, and his vocalizer crackles and slurs. “You betray me… I’ll kill you.”_

_“I will not,” Wing says. “Come. I know where we can find shelter.”_

_“You… lead,” Deadlock growls, gesturing with his blaster. “No sudden moves.”_

_“As you wish,” Wing says. Deadlock hates him. Hates the little smile on his face. Hates that Wing is obviously humoring him. Hates the way his legs tremble and threaten to give way._

_It’s only a few steps before Deadlock’s systems have taken enough. His knees hit the ground, and then the blackness of stasis lock overcomes him._

 

* * *

 

 

            Something had changed. The mech hanging upside-down in a dark cell onlined his optics to their dimmest setting. With the damage he had sustained over time, he had stopped seeing in color years ago, and a monochrome world greeted him. Nothing was different in his immediate vicinity. What had awakened him?

            The engines. The darkmatter engines were slowly coming back online. The sound was almost too quiet to hear, but his audio sensors had sharpened over time to compensate for his damaged optics. And if the engines were coming back online, that meant Lockdown was finished on this planet.

            The prisoner had spent most of their time on this planet in a trance, consciousness ebbing and flowing as he moved in and out of the waking world. He had heard enough chatter from the crew as they passed his cell, and he knew enough of Lockdown’s mission, to piece together what was happening. There were Autobots on this planet. Lockdown’s target was here. Optimus Prime, the last of the Knights.

            And if they were leaving—Lockdown had what he wanted, at long last. After all these thousands of years.

            _No_. In his Spark, the prisoner wanted to scream. Wanted to wail and cry and even beg. Lockdown had accomplished his mission. And he had done it with the prisoner’s help. Unwilling, of course; coerced by the worst of tortures, the most invasive hacking. It still felt like a betrayal.

            _If you betray me,_ a voice whispered in his memory, _I’ll kill you._

            The pain almost sent him offline. Not just the daily physical agony. He was used to that. It was the sharp twist of his Spark whenever he thought about…

            _Drift. Oh, Drift. I miss you. I miss you. I miss you._

* * *

 

 

_“You lead,” the Decepticon says, still swaying. “No sudden moves.”_

_“As you wish,” he says, unable to keep in a little smile. There are a dozen different ways to disarm the Decepticon. His processor plays each of them in rapid succession over the span of an instant. But this is about saving a life, not proving a point._

_It is a moot point in any case, because the Decepticon can only take a few steps before his injuries overwhelm him. Wing doubles back, shaking his head. Well… he wouldn’t be a warrior if he weren’t stubborn._

_He ends up half-dragging, half-carrying the stranger to his home. A space he had carved out among the ruins of what had been a great city, once. This is his sanctuary, a place to wait out the war and keep the old ways alive._

_Wing is beginning to think this war will never end._

_He is charged with noninterference, but he cannot stand idly by and let an injured mech die. Autobot, Decepticon, it doesn’t matter. Wing doesn’t believe in factions. How can he call himself Cybertronian if he doesn’t help one of his own kind?_

_Wing is no trained medic, but he has been on his own long enough to necessitate learning some skills. It takes hours to stabilize the Decepticon. Only then can his self-repair begin the long and arduous healing process. Out here, with limited resources, it will take even longer._

_They will be stuck together for a while. Wing isn’t about to leave him alone._

_Wing is working on some of the simpler repairs on the Decepticon’s legs when his guest onlines all at once. Damaged metal screeches in protest as the Decepticon lashes out, knocking Wing back more from surprise than anything._

_“Easy,” Wing cries. “Be careful. You’ll damage yourself.”_

_The Decepticon casts about for a weapon, but can’t find one. Wing had left his blaster lying where he’d dropped it on the outskirts of the battlefield. “What do you_ want _?” he snarls. “What game are you playing? Are you Autobot or Decepticon? I want the truth!”_

_Wing edges carefully forward, hands out. “I am neither Autobot nor Decepticon,” he says. “I am alone.”_

_“What do you want from me?”_

_“I want to help you. You’re hurt.”_

_The Decepticon growls, relaxing little by little as he runs a systems check and finds his condition improved. “Why?”_

_“Because it’s the right thing to do.”_

_His guest snorts. “I thought altruists were extinct.”_

_Wing smiles. “Not all of them. Please—I just patched that energon line in your arm, and I’d rather not do it again.”_

_The Decepticon remains wary as he settles back down, looking around the shelter. It isn’t much. The bare essentials, really. “Fine.”_

_“Fine?”_

_“I’m taking you as my prisoner. You’re going to patch me up. Then I’m going back.” He sounds uncertain about that last part. Wing shrugs._

_“All right. I’m your prisoner, then.” Whatever makes him feel better, even if they both know it for an utter lie._

_The Decepticon grumbles and stretches out his legs. “Get to it.”_

_Wing swallows his smile as he obliges. “What’s your name?”_

_The Decepticon leans his helm back against the scarred wall and doesn’t answer._

_It takes entire days of Wing slowly doing his best to repair what damage he can, talking in a low voice, wheedling tidbits from his guest, before the injured mech finally answers the question._

_“Drift,” he says. “My name is Drift.”_

 

* * *

 

 

            His name had been Wing, once. At least he still remembered that much. At least he could remember a time before Lockdown’s ship. At least he could remember Drift.

            His Drift. His broken, beautiful warrior. How long it had taken to find the mech under the Decepticon shell. How many weeks they had spent together in Protihex while Drift recovered. Drift had shared his past, grudgingly: his early life, forgotten and alone in the gutters; his time with the Decepticons, his battle-rage.

            And Wing had offered his in return. Strange how he could barely remember it now. Those memories had faded after all these years in this cell. He remembered that he had learned to fight. Trained with someone. He had learned about the Knights. He had learned about their ship. He had learned about the Creators. _That_ was what had attracted Lockdown. The secret knowledge passed down to him. The tales of the Knights. Clues as to where they were now. Clues Lockdown needed.

            He hadn’t told Drift about the Knights, but about his training and the path he’d found. He told him about the joy he found in helping others. He told him what the war was doing to their kind.

            Drift had always insisted he would return to the Decepticons. For weeks he’d said that. “As soon as you’re finished,” he would say. But when he was well enough to transform, he lingered. He made his muttered excuses, but Wing could see through him. He was hesitant to return to a war that had taken everything from him and given nothing in return….

            Wing had slipped back into memories. It was automatic by now, preferable to the waking world. But something had dragged him back. The darkmatter drives. Still active, but not at full burn. They had not left the planet yet. Why? What was going on?

            Wing painfully dragged himself into consciousness. He needed his processor completely online to solve this puzzle.

            “…still don’t have much time.”

            “I can’t get a good read on this ship. If I could only find some bloody _schematics_ , that would be a place to start.”

            “I say head for the place with the most bad guys.”

            “We must seek the heart of the ship. He will be in the most secure location. Stealth will be our ally.”

            That voice—he knew that voice. He would know it anywhere. It was torture to move his head. Alerts scrolled endlessly down his HUD as he tried to pick out shapes in the monochrome world.

            There, outside the bars. Moving shapes. Mechs—not Lockdown’s crew. His Spark flared into wild pulses. It couldn’t be. It was impossible. He’d _seen_ him fall. He’d seen Lockdown’s hook tear the plating from his chest. He’d always thought—but Drift was _here_. Just outside the bars. Almost within arms’ reach. Rebuilt, reformatted, but Wing would never forget the way he stood, the way he walked, the way he moved.

            Everything he’d gone through, the torture and anguish of his time on this ship, shrank to one brilliant, burning thought.

            _He’s here. He came for me. I knew he would._

            And Wing tried. He tried to move his arms, even as agony lanced through his shoulders. He tried to swing himself from the binding of his feet. And he tried, desperately, to call out. His shattered vocalizer spat soft static as his lips moved.

            _Drift!_

            No sound. Wing could taste the irony, or maybe that was just the taste of pain, rusty and bitter. How he’d silenced himself to spite Lockdown, refused to speak for so many years, and now he had no voice when he needed it most. When Drift was _there_ , optics trained forward, sometimes up or down, but never to the side, never into the cages.

            _Drift_ , he screamed silently. A spark popped from his vocalizer, stinging his neck cables. He stretched out his arm as far as he could, although the pain was great enough to nearly send him spinning offline. _I’m here, I’m right here!_

            Every speck of energy he could spare went towards his vocalizer. Every pathway of his processor narrowed in on the same thing, as though he could _will_ Drift to notice him. Just glance to the left—just a little bit, just an _instant_ , was all it would take.

            _Drift, **please**!_

            Too late. Drift and the others had passed, their indistinct gray shapes moving away from the bars and deeper into the ship.

           _He’s not here for me_ , Wing realized, falling limp in his binding. The Prime. Drift—Drift was an Autobot now, and he had come for his Prime. Not for someone long thought dead.

            But— _he is alive_.

            Wing had long since given up any hope for himself. He had always known nobody would come to his rescue, if Drift were dead. Nobody was left who even knew he existed. He had resigned himself to dying here, alone, in pain, whenever Lockdown needed to clear his cell. He was prepared. He would have welcomed it, even. And now! If Lockdown came to him now to rip out his Spark, Wing would die with a smile on his face, knowing that Drift had survived after all.

            If he’d only had the chance to speak to him one last time.

            This was the most aware Wing had been in a long time. It was difficult to stay awake. His systems had long since altered his energon flow to compensate for his upside-down position all this time, but that only exchanged death for constant pain. Besides that, there was—boredom was the wrong word. With nothing to do, nothing to look at, Wing could only fall back on memories, or oblivion. Sometimes oblivion was kinder. There were only so many times he could replay his past, and even that had faded with time. Many of his memories had deteriorated into vagueness. Even his most precious memories—his time with Drift—had begun to warp. Most of the time he had consigned himself to deep meditation, a trance-like state that slowed his thoughts to a crawl and changed his pain to a dull background sensation.

            Now, however, seeing Drift had reawakened his will to live. If there were any way out of this cell, he would find it. If there were any way… if he could only reach the release on his leg binding, then he might stand a _chance_.

            For Drift. For Drift, he had to explore every possibility, no matter how slim, every chance to free himself. And the window was closing fast: they could find their Prime and leave. They could even destroy the ship. Or the Autobots, and Drift, could be destroyed.

            _No_. _Not again. I won’t go through that again._

            That day. The worst day. _Those_ memories were still vivid: the great shadowy form of Lockdown’s ship, _this_ ship; the fight, hard and brutal and pitifully mismatched, even two on one. Drift had always been a competent warrior, with a vicious killer’s instinct, and Wing had trained for so long, but even together they could not stand against Lockdown. He had incapacitated Wing first. _Oh_ , he remembered the pain. He’d thought he was dying, but he’d been more concerned about Drift. Lockdown had dispatched him almost easily—not without wounds; Wing still felt a warm surge of pride when he remembered how bravely Drift had fought—and Wing had _seen_ his optics flare and go dark as Lockdown’s hook dragged its way through his chest plating.

            It had been the last Wing had seen before his own wounds had forced him into shutdown. When he had awakened on this ship, he’d thought Drift must be dead. A suspicion only confirmed when Drift never came for him. Now he realized what his own injuries must have looked like from the outside. Drift had thought _he_ was dead, all this time.

            _No more_ , Wing swore to himself. He _would_ escape from here, somehow. He _would_ be with Drift again.

            If his mind and Spark were in agreement, his body was not. Every time Wing tried to move, agony lanced through him. His systems simply couldn’t take the strain after being suspended in place for so long. He tried to haul himself upright, but his midsection lacked the strength any longer, and he fell back with a gasp, his vision going white as error messages cascaded through his processor.

            No—some of those alerts were coming from the ship. He could hear the low, insistent buzz of alarms. An intruder alert? There must be fighting elsewhere. Drift and the others had encountered resistance. He was running out of time.

            Shapes moved in his periphery and he tried to focus. Two of Lockdown’s crew moved past his cell, weapons up. A round droid rolled at their heels, scanning low. Wing prayed for a miracle: perhaps the Autobots would spring out in ambush, giving him a second chance to win their attention? But the guards moved on. Drift and the others were far away by now.

            His vocalizer sparked as his throat worked around a sob. _Primus… Primus, please… you cannot be so cruel…_

            There was a new sound. Unfamiliar. The faintest patter of stumbling footsteps, but so much smaller than anything he had ever heard. And then movement: a tiny creature squeezed through the bars of his cage, stumbling and falling to its knees. Bipedal, organic, and obviously frightened. Wing heard the slow tread of one of Lockdown’s crew, the telltale whine of a scanner. The creature crawled away from the bars, panting harshly.

            So small, and so fragile! Lockdown did not take kindly to vermin on his ship. This tiny creature was in danger.

 

* * *

 

 

_He asks Wing if he can actually use those swords he carries. Wing smiles at him, mischievous and infuriating, and says, “Come find out.”_

_Drift, Deadlock, Decepticon warrior, terrifying berserker, is laid out in moments by this smiling white neutral, who offers a hand to help him. Drift ignores it that first time, and for many weeks afterward. It never stops Wing from offering._

_“You could learn,” Wing suggests._

_“I know how to fight,” Drift says._

_“Your battle-rage does the fighting,” Wing says. “This is control. This is finesse.”_

_He draws his swords and moves in a slow pattern. Drift is hypnotized as he picks up speed until the exercise is a lethal dance of flashing edges. Wing comes to a rest with the point of one sword just over Drift’s chest plating. Drift hadn’t flinched, and the depth of his trust startles him. If Wing had been in a battle-rage, he wouldn’t have stopped._

_Control. Wing can teach him to control it._

_“Teach me,” he says._

 

* * *

 

 

            All Tessa needed was a place to hide for a moment. The crew were combing the ship. Looking for her? Or had the other Autobots come for Optimus? She had to find him. Maybe—maybe there was some way to free him, and escape together. But she had to dodge the guards first, and it seemed like there were huge robots _everywhere_. The massive ones, Autobot sized, carried assault rifles, and she didn’t want to think about what those could do to a human. The smaller ones, the junkyard bots, weren’t much bigger than she was, but they were _vicious_. And the little rolling ones? Probably not armed, but she bet they’d let everything else know where she was.

            With the huge, slow, steady footsteps of one of the transformers behind her, Tessa sprinted down the long corridor, her breath coming in ragged pants. She had to get out of the open. She glanced sideways at the cages. Some had things… _moving_ in them. Slimy, slithering things, or things that growled, or things that rattled the bars. But there—a dark and silent space with bars she could slip through. Thank god these cages hadn’t been designed for creatures as small as humans.

            She climbed through the bars just in time as the robot rounded the far corner. But it could still look in and see her—there had to be somewhere to hide. She stumbled into the cage, seeking a corner, handholds, a way to climb the walls, a back door, anything.

            What she got was a huge hand coming towards her.

            She almost screamed, but clapped her hands over her mouth before she could get out more than a squeak. There was another robot in here, the same size as the other Autobots—well, not _Hound_ -sized, more like Bumblebee-sized. It dangled upside-down from a claw caught on its feet, just low enough for its hands to brush the ground. Except that one of them was reaching out towards her. It stopped at her squeak, drawing back a few feet.

            Its mouth moved, but only static came out. Its throat emitted a few sparks—damaged? Its eyes were gold, not blue like Optimus’s, but not green like Lockdown’s either, and it widened them imploringly. _What the heck?_ How could she read emotions on that face? She’d been spending too much time with the Autobots. They weren’t just machines, they could feel. And this one… this one looked like it was asking her something.

            The footsteps were getting closer. The robot’s lips moved again and its hand settled, palm-up, on the ground at her feet. Tessa lowered her hands from her mouth. Did it want her for a snack, or was it trying to help her? She remembered how Optimus had caught her from the air and cradled her close to his chest, keeping her safe and secure even as rubble flew all around them. It was the safest she had felt all day.

            That was an upside-down face she could trust, she decided, and climbed shakily onto the hand. The fingers curled just enough to keep her steady as it lifted her from the ground, past its face, and cradled her protectively against its chest so its body was between her and the bars. She clung to the fingers.

            Footsteps stopped just outside the cell. A moment later, a rolling droid moved across the floor, its bright scanner beams sweeping the ground. Tessa put her hands over her mouth, muffling her breath. The droid completed its sweep and rolled back to the bars, and the guard moved on.

            Tessa let out a breath that was more like a sob. The dangling robot gingerly lowered its arm, settling its hand back on the floor, and she stumbled off. She looked up at it.

            “Why did you help me?” she asked. The bot didn’t answer, but more static spat from its throat. Yes or no questions only, then. “Are you an Autobot? You know Optimus Prime?”

            The robot just stared at her, eyes wide.

            “Can you even understand me?”

            No response. _Of course not_ , she realized. The Autobots only spoke English because they’d been on Earth, and this bot was a prisoner aboard this ship—he might never have made planetfall. He couldn’t understand a word she said, even if he _could_ speak.

            She had to go find Optimus. But… it would be easier if she had backup. And if this robot were going to hurt her, it would have done it already. It looked so… helpless. Injured. Hanging here. And it had still helped her, even when it had no reason.

            “How can I help you?” she asked. Time for some pantomime. She pointed at the robot, then at the bars. It moved its head… a nod, probably. Yes, it wanted out. Okay. Not what she asked, but… she did the pantomime again, and then spread her arms, like, _how?_

            The robot shifted, bending forward and upward slightly, then falling back with a groan of metal, eyes flickering. It lifted an arm, pointing up towards its feet. The claw. If she could figure out some way to get it down, then the two of them could probably work out how to open the cell, or she could find a switch or a lever or something on the outside.

            “Right.” She nodded, since that was body language it apparently knew. It offered her a hand again and she climbed aboard. It lifted her as high as it could—about to its hips. She grabbed on. Time to climb. The robot held itself steady as she used the grooves and gaps in its armor to haul herself up its leg. She climbed onto the claw, which swayed queasily.

            Alien tech. Well, she was her father’s daughter, and he’d taught her more than a little about machines. She wrapped her legs securely around the cable just above the hinge of the claw. If there was a manual release, it would be there. After a minute’s searching, she had something that looked like a lever.

            “Thanks, Dad,” she whispered. She leaned out to look down. The robot’s gold eyes stared up through the darkness. “I’m gonna try something,” she said to warn it. It braced its hands against the ground. She had to fling her entire body weight against the lever. For a moment it held; then it shifted, and then it released with a clank. The claw opened and the robot fell to the floor with a clatter that Tessa swore would bring the whole ship down on them. The detached claw swung crazily in midair and she hung on for dear life. The fall probably wouldn’t kill her. _Probably_.

            A clapping noise caught her attention and she peeked over her shoulder. Her robot had found its footing, though it looked shaky. It had reached up towards her—the sound had been its hands clapping softly to get her attention. Tessa gingerly unwound her death grip on the cable and slid her feet into the air. It was a short drop into his hands. The bot held her steady in one hand instead of putting her down. His other hand braced against the bars as the robot swayed. He was in bad shape.

            _He_ , now? Well… he’d saved her, and she’d helped him. He’d earned a better pronoun than “it.”

            “Let’s get you out of here,” she said. He smiled, which startled her. She’d thought they might have learned smiling on Earth, but apparently it was universal. She patted his thumb. “Come on.”

            He lifted her up to his shoulder and she clung to the fins on the side of his head for support. He didn’t seem to mind as they went to check out the bars. She could feel him shaking under her. Maybe he wouldn’t be as good backup as she’d hoped. How long had he been a prisoner?

            Her robot gave her a boost to the top of the bars. She climbed to the outside, at the top of the cage door. There had to be a catch around here somewhere. But what if it was locked? She couldn’t just steal a key from one of the giant robot wardens.

            But… she knew guys like Lockdown. She walked past them every day in school. The arrogant ones. This was his ship and he thought he was unstoppable here.

            The catch for the cage door was on the left side. Tessa crawled over it with her robot eyeing her from below, ready to catch her if she slipped. No guards had come to investigate the crash from his fall. Her dad was here. They were looking for him.

            She had to take care of him, with the help of her new friend.

            With some experimentation her dad would have been proud of, she popped the catch. The cage door slid open, letting her friend out into the hall. He looked one way, then the other, then up at her, offering his hand. She got back on his shoulder.

            “Which way do you think?” she asked, pointing both ways down the hall. Her friend cocked his head towards the distant sounds of a commotion.

            Great. _Towards_ the action. But that was where she’d find Dad. She nodded. “Let’s go.”

            It wasn’t fast. Her metal friend did his best, but he was limping and shivering, using the cages for support. His throat kept spitting sparks right next to Tessa.

            But it was better than going on her own, lost, helpless, and afraid.

            “—essa! _Tessa!_ ”

            Tessa jumped. “Dad?!” she called.

            His voice echoed out of the ship’s depths. “Tessa!”

            “Dad! I’m here!” She slid down her robot’s arm—he bent over to get closer to the ground—and jumped, landing on hands and knees and scrambling upright, searching. Where was his voice coming from? “Dad?!”

            “Tessa! Where are you?”

            There was a gap between panels in the wall, too small for any of the robots or other creatures she’d seen on this ship, but large enough to slip through. Faint light came through, and the distant shout. “Tessa! Tessa!” That one was Shane’s voice.

            “I’m coming!” she shouted back. She hesitated. There had to be a way through there big enough for the robot. She turned to find her friend crouched just behind her. He made a gentle shooing gesture with his hands. Another obvious piece of body language: _go._

            “What about you?” she asked, pointing at him. He gestured behind him. He’d look for another way. An unearthly howling wail started up somewhere the way they’d come. Her robot’s face darkened. He made the shooing motion again, more insistently this time.

            Whatever was coming, Tessa didn’t want to meet it. Her robot, though… he was hurt. Could he really take care of himself?

            As though he sensed her indecision, he reached out a hand towards her, palm-down this time. She touched his fingers. He smiled and gave her a tiny push.

            “Thank you,” she said. Even if he couldn’t understand her. “Thank you for helping me. Good luck.”

            She turned and wriggled through the dark space.

 

* * *

 

 

            _“Good, Drift! Keep your rhythm!”_

_His Spark warms with pride at Drift’s progress. Nobody will use him as a berserker again. He will not lose himself to battle-rage. He will own himself._

_Drift’s injures are all but healed. His training with Wing has not damaged him, but strengthened his healing body. It has made him stronger in more ways than one._

_The first time that Drift manages to strike one of Wing’s swords from his hands, Drift grins even when his back hits the ground and Wing’s second blade teases his throat._

_“That was good,” Wing says, returning the grin._

_“Yeah?” Drift says on the crest of a laugh, his optics glinting bright and triumphant. “I’ve earned a reward now, right?”_

_Before Wing can voice his confusion—his only reward for this is the satisfaction and peace it brings—Drift leans up enough that Wing’s sword strikes sparks from his throat, hooks his fingers around the fins of Wing’s helm, and presses their mouthplates together. Wing’s Spark sings in joy._

_(It is a memory he revisits often, preserves desperately: one brilliant light in the long darkness.)_

 

* * *

 

 

            When her dad asked her to make a choice, whether to go with the Autobots to China and save seven million people or to stay in hiding here, Tessa thought about her robot. He’d helped her without any idea of who or even _what_ she was. He’d seen that she was in trouble and scared, and he’d acted.

            How could she do anything different?

            They’re somewhere over the western US when she goes to Optimus. She feels a sort of camaraderie with him now. A thirty-foot-tall, millennia-old alien robot who changed into a truck. Yeah. But he kind of reminded her of her dad. A really angry version, sure, but one who cared about his bots, and when they were in the net together to be carried to Lockdown’s ship, he had spoken to her. No empty promises like “I’ll keep you safe,” given that he was in no position to do that. All he’d said was “Be strong.”

            She waved her hands to get his attention. The weight of his gaze landed like a sandbag on her shoulders, but she stayed up.

            “One of your people was on that ship,” she said. “I mean, not one of Lockdown’s crew, but like you.”

            “An Autobot?” he asked. Even under the perpetual bitterness there was a terrible note of hope.

            “I don’t know,” she admitted. “He couldn’t talk. Like Bumblebee. He helped me when I was in trouble, and I let him out of his cage, but we got separated. He might have gotten out, or he might be on the ship.”

            Neither option sounded good.

            “If he dropped in the city, they’ll tear him apart,” Hound rumbled. “Just like the others.”

            Optimus’s face was grim. “If he escaped the ship, we will stay here long enough to find him, one way or another. If not… Lockdown is certain to return when he finds that we have gone.”

            Tessa shuddered at the thought of encountering Lockdown again. But this time, all five Autobots could face him together, presuming they survived until then. She hoped her friend was safe.

 

* * *

 

 

            _Drift has lost track of the time he’s spent here in the ruins of Protihex. He tells himself, now and again, that he really does mean to go back. Go back to the faction that had used and abandoned him? When he can stay here, with Wing?_

_In the end he never has the chance to stay with Wing._

_In the end a ship descends from the sky, black and monstrous._

_“I’ve never seen a ship like that,” Drift says as they watch from their shelter. “Not Decepticons. I don’t know_ what _it is.”_

_“That ship,” Wing whispers. When Drift looks at him, he is staring, his plating drawn in tight to his frame. “I know it.”_

_“Maybe it will move on,” Drift says._

_It doesn’t. It fires on them instead._

_Wing’s arms circle his chest and the jet carries both of them into the air, away from their shelter just in time. The explosion knocks them from the air. Drift comes up in a neat combat roll. He may not have his guns any more but he has the swords Wing’s been training him with. Wing crouches nearby, his own swords already drawn and ready._

_A single mech drops from the ship. When he stands, he is taller than either of them, matte-black and gunmetal gray, with poison-green optics. His right arm elongates, shifts, forms a cruel hook._

_“Lockdown,” Drift snarls._

_“So it_ is _the Decepticons?”_

_“He’s not one of them. He answers to no one.”_

_Wing meets his gaze. Determined. “We do this together, Drift.”_

_It is a brave fight. Later Drift will look back and acknowledge that. Later, he will see just how little Wing has had the chance to teach him of what he knows. Wing moves in a whirlwind of gleaming edges. Drift feels clumsy next to him. Later he will see that he is little more than an annoyance to Lockdown. That is why Lockdown concentrates his efforts on Wing, meeting him with a wicked long knife of his own, blades on blades._

_His memories of the fight are dazed and confused, but he remembers one moment clearly. He remembers Wing’s golden optics flashing bright as Lockdown’s hook catches his chest plating, dragging him forward and off-balance. He remembers his own scream of anguish as he sees the end of Lockdown’s knife burst from Wing’s back. He remembers the crash of Wing’s plating hitting the ground as Lockdown throws him down._

_That’s all Drift remembers, because the battle-rage had taken him after that._

_Wing had trained him to control it, to use finesse in battle, to stay in command of his own mind. But seeing Wing lying in a pool of spreading energon, the same energon dripping from Lockdown’s hook and knife, snaps all of Drift’s tenuously learned control. His only memories of what happens next are pain and fury, and darkness._

_Drift comes back online, which is surprising in itself. He does not know where he is. His body does not feel like his own._

_“Easy,” a voice says. The same thing Wing had said to him when they had met, but that is not Wing’s voice. “Lie still. The damage required us to fully reformat you. You aren’t ready to move yet.”_

_A mech leans over him. Blue optics. Autobot optics, and the symbol etched on his chest._

_“Well, Deadlock, you looked like you lost a battle with a shredder. Care to tell me what happened?”_

_For an instant, Drift doesn’t know who he’s talking to. It’s like he’s waking up from a dream, returning to a waking world he wants no part of. Let him go back to the dream. Back to Wing._

_But the part of him that is still Deadlock stirs up the rage inside him and he remembers. He tries to sit up, even, but he is restrained._

_“Wing! Where is he?”_

_The Autobot—the medic, he guesses—shakes his head. “You were the only one we found,” he says._

_It takes a while for Drift’s repairs to be completed. He uses that time to plead his case to the Autobots. He has learned enough tact from Wing to convince them that he is a defector. He needs the Autobots. He needs their intelligence._

_They take him, grudgingly. They can hardly turn down a skilled warrior, not when the Decepticons still solidly outclass them in sheer fighting strength. He knows from the looks on their faces that they will not accept him, not truly. Fine. He doesn’t need that. There is only one person he needs._

_As soon as his reformatted frame is prepared, he returns to the site of the battle. The ground is still scarred. Pieces still litter the ground._

_Drift widens his communications scan, pinging Wing at regular intervals, but receives no response. He picks through the ruins of their haven. There is little left. No Wing. No sign that he had come to retrieve anything._

_Back at the battle site he finds something wholly unwelcome. Besides the pieces of Wing’s armor and his own—enough to send shadowy pain skimming up and down new sensors—there is something else. Two somethings. Wing’s swords, lying where they had fallen, discarded and forgotten. Wing—Wing would not have left them._

_Once again he replays the memory. Wing’s optics flaring. The knife bursting from his back. The clatter of his plating. His unmoving form. It plays over and over in his processor, the only truly clear memory of the fight._

_At the time, Drift entertains the slim chance that Wing might be alive, as he takes Wing’s swords and turns to the Autobots. It will take years of searching. Silence. Disappointment. Deadlock fighting against Drift, the berserker inside him raging against Wing’s teachings of serenity and control. Over and over, before he gives up hope._

_Wing is dead._

 

* * *

 

 

            Wing hadn’t made it off the ship.

            He had been hanging upside-down in a cage without access to any outside network that he couldn’t even be sure how long it had been without syncing his chronometer with an outside source, and it had taken its toll on his frame. He couldn’t transform, couldn’t fight, could scarcely move at all—just like Drift, when Wing had found him in the ruins of Protihex.

            But when the fighting died down and the darkmatter engines came to full roar, Wing knew it was not the time to panic. Count his advantages: he was upright and free of his cage; he was relatively mobile; he knew how to be stealthy. Count his disadvantages: he was still trapped on this ship, outnumbered, and unarmed, and on top of it all he could barely move.

            His first instinct was to find a hiding place. He had wedged himself painfully into an alcove high above the main bank of cages. It had taken most of his strength to drag himself up to it. He could rest while he planned his next move.

            The bustle surrounding the intruders on the ship had quieted down when the darkmatter engines fired up, but it wasn’t long before the alarms blared again. Wing kept to his hiding spot, watching and listening to the mechs scurrying back and forth beneath him, piecing together what had happened: Prime had escaped, taking some of the other high-value prisoners with him.

            They were turning around. Heading back to the blue planet.

            Back to Drift.

            Add to the list of advantages: the ship was taking him back where he wanted to go. Add to the disadvantages: as Lockdown’s crew ran a complete check on every cage, his absence was bound to be noticed. Would they assume he had left the ship in the company of the Autobots?

            _No_ , Wing thought, and his abused plating shivered slightly. _Lockdown never assumes._

 

* * *

 

            _Wing onlines in agony. His chest is a white blaze of pain, and error reports cascade through his processors as he runs a check on all systems. Mobility is zero. Not only is he injured, but he is restrained to what feels like a recharge slab._

 _A priority alert shoves straight to the front of his queue._ Drift. _Where is Drift? Memories: the ship. The mech called Lockdown. Fighting. Drift, fighting._ Pain _._

_His optics online next and a nightmare face hovers above him. Wing recoils, startled._

_“Lockdown.”_

_“Welcome to my ship,” Lockdown says. Somehow Wing is surprised. Somehow he hadn’t realized Lockdown could speak. He hadn’t said a word during their fight. “I think you recognize it.”_

_“Should I?” Wing says. His vocalizer is staticky and glitching, so maybe it will be harder for Lockdown to hear the bluff. Of course he recognizes this ship._

_“You should. I would expect it from the last of the Circle.”_

_Wing goes utterly still._

_“What?”_

_The… last…?_

_“The others were not as good as you at hiding from this ‘war,’” Lockdown says with a contemptuous twist of his mouth. “I was beginning to think all of you would be offline by the time I tracked you down. I thought I wouldn’t have another chance after Dai Atlas. He put up so much of a struggle that I had to kill him. It was a disappointing day.”_

_Wing turns his head away, staring at the dark ceiling. A storm threatens to burst inside him, but he cannot show it to Lockdown. He clings to his training. He tries to ease his Spark into the rhythm of meditation. But his Spark rages and screams within him. It can’t be true. He can’t be the last of the Circle! Denial, grief, rage—they vibrate through his entire frame. Emotion was always his weakness. Dai Atlas had told him that, how many times?_

_“I wasn’t expecting you to be so difficult. It all would have been for nothing if you’d died too. Your Spark guttered once or twice.”_

_Dai Atlas, dead! It can’t be. All of them—dead. It can’t be._

_“You’re lying,” Wing says. He is pleased that his voice comes out calm and unaffected._

_“What could I gain by that?”_

_Either Lockdown is an excellent liar—and Wing has been trained to detect falsehoods of any sort—or it is all true._

_“Where is Drift?” he asks._

_“Deadlock?” The other mech smiles, if that is the right word for the humorless shift of his mouthplates. “Lying in the ruins of Protihex.”_

_Wing’s Spark cools abruptly. One moment flashing in anguish, the next, settling to a slow, cold pulse. His voice sounds like a stranger’s: flat and emotionless. “What do you want from me?”_

_Lockdown taps one of his heavy fingers against Wing’s helm. “I want what you know,” he says slowly, “about the Knights.”_

_That he knows this much is disturbing. That he has found the_ Nox Terminus _, frightening. But each of these is only a ripple in Wing’s Spark._

_At the first rumbles of war, Dai Atlas had founded the Circle of Light to preserve Cybertronian culture from all across the planet: one of their number to represent each city-state and to learn from the others, as well as to keep the secrets of Cybertron’s history. The greatest secrets of their kind’s origin._

_If Wing—the youngest of their number—truly is the last of the Circle, he is the only one who can lead Lockdown to the Knights. If he dies, their secrets die with him. As does what remains of their people’s culture._

_Wing remains eerily calm. It is as though Drift’s death has torn away all fear._

_“I will not betray my vows.”_

_“Admirable,” Lockdown says. “But unlikely.”_

 

* * *

 

            Slow, leisurely, heavy footsteps. Wing held still, even though all of his plating wanted to shiver off of his protoform at the familiar, dreaded sound. That even tread had haunted him for so long. When the Unmaker came, his footsteps would sound like Lockdown’s.

            He was moving slowly, taking the time to check every cage, and talking all the while. Wing could make out the coaxing tone first. Then the words became clearer as Lockdown drew closer to his hiding place.

            “Come out, Wing. You aren’t a hatchling anymore. We’ve come beyond these little games.”

            Wing locked his joints and dimmed his optics. He tried to calm his Spark down to a mere whisper, like deepest meditation. With all the interference of the other captives, Lockdown shouldn’t be able to pick up his energy signature. The Autobots had missed it, and they had been right next to him.

            “Come out,” Lockdown coaxed again, his tone oh-so-reasonable. That was the most terrible thing: Lockdown had never sounded angry, frustrated, or emotional when faced with Wing’s defiance. If anything, it had always seemed to amuse him. The mech could carry a conversational tone no matter how loudly Wing screamed. “Show yourself now, and I will end it quickly. After all your suffering, you’ve earned it.”

            In his darkest moments, Wing had occasionally wished for death. It would have been better than the many tortures—physical, mental, psychological—that Lockdown employed. Sometimes he had nearly begged for it, the words forming in his processor, but Wing would tear out his own vocalizer rather than debase himself so completely for Lockdown’s enjoyment. It was the last dignity he clung to. He would not beg.

            “Otherwise, I will find you,” Lockdown promised conversationally—right beneath Wing’s hiding place now—“and it will not be quick.” Metal scraped along metal, a long chilling screech: probably he was dragging his hook along the wall. “I’ve been inside your head, Wing. I know what hurts you most. I know everything you fear. It will be slow. I promise you that.”

            That pain—that _pain_ —like someone had threaded hot wires through his processor—Lockdown laying siege to his thoughts and memories, the secrets Wing had sacrificed his own voice to hide, and breaking down the walls one by one until all of Wing’s mind was laid bare before him.

            _My sky,_ Wing thought, again and again, to drown out his fear. _I am coming, my sky. I’ll be with you soon, my sky, my sky._

            “Captain,” said a new voice. Wing had not even heard another mech approaching. Lockdown’s monologue cut off.

            “What?”

            “We’re approaching the blue world.”

            “Fine,” Lockdown said, suddenly businesslike again. There were more important matters to deal with than one escaped prisoner. Wing could have melted in relief as two sets of steps retreated.

            He unlocked his limbs and onlined his optics, checking that the coast was now clear. They would be making planetfall soon. Lockdown would leave the ship and perhaps take more of his crew—many had already been killed by the Autobots. It was time for a plan of action.

            First step: arm himself. The _Nox Terminus_ was built for long voyages and a large crew. It would have more than one armory.

            Second step: whittle down his enemy. Even if he got his hands on weapons, Wing was still too damaged to fight well. He would have to supplement his skills with cunning.

            Third step: take control of the ship.

            His mouthplates twitched in a ghost of his old smile. _Clearly a well thought-out plan, Wing._ Funny how the voice in his head reminded him of Drift.

 

* * *

 

            With the battle over, Lockdown dead, the human-made drones destroyed, four Cybertronian dinosaurs roaming the Chinese countryside, and Optimus gone into the vastness of space, the last four Autobots on Earth were left to clean up the loose ends. There were humans to deal with: friends, unlikely allies, and potential hostiles alike. More pressingly, there was a massive spaceship slowly cruising away from the city, crewed by more of Lockdown’s mechs, who still posed a threat.

            Of course, Optimus had once again neglected to leave any of them in charge in his absence. Hound was the oldest, but he was a soldier, not a commander. Crosshairs was hardly a team player. If Bumblebee wanted to assume command again… well. Drift still wasn’t comfortable taking orders from a glorified scout, but he _had_ been on this planet longer than any of them. He knew its people and customs. And Hound and Crosshairs were infinitely more eager to follow him than an ex-Con.

            Drift didn’t like it, but now was not the time to fight among themselves. There were too many soldiers on this beach for his liking. So he grudgingly turned towards the yellow bot.

            “What next?” Time for Bumblebee to earn his place.

            To his credit, and to Drift’s surprise, the little scout responded immediately.

            _/Don’t let the humans destroy that ship,/_ he told them over comm. _/We need to know more about it. Optimus is looking for answers out there, but maybe we can find them here. We can’t let the humans take it for themselves, either./_

“They’re obviously not to be trusted with it,”Crosshairs replied aloud, but in Cybertronian, so none of the humans could understand.

            _/Hound, take our friends to a safe place. They may still need our protection./_

            “Not gonna need me on that ship?”

            “Bumblebee is right,” Drift said, as much as it pained him. The little yellow bot’s doorwings flexed in surprise. “You fought bravely and you are exhausted. Crosshairs and I are better prepared.”

            “You’ve got nothin’ in the tank,” Crosshairs said. “Sit this one out. The stowaways need you.”

            _/How many can you carry in your flight mode?/_

            “One,” Drift said. “Two for a short distance, and that—” He nodded towards the ship, getting further away by the moment—“is not a short distance.”

            _/Then I’ll go with Hound. And we’ll take this one,/_ he added with an uncomplimentary bleat of static, jerking his head towards the bald human. _/We’ll need his evidence to make our case to the governments of this world. He will explain what he helped engineer./_

            Crosshairs switched back to English. “All right, Kurosawa, we’ve got a ship to catch.”

 

* * *

 

            With the battle-rage still tingling in his systems, Drift was ready for another fight. But, to his surprise, there wasn’t one when he and Crosshairs arrived at the ship. None of Lockdown’s crew came to stop them.

            “Maybe we killed ‘em all,” Crosshairs said.

            “Maybe it’s a trap,” Drift said. “Stay alert.”

            But the trap never sprang as they returned to the depths of Lockdown’s ship, this time moving towards the bridge.

            “A ship this size must have more crew than those we fought,” Drift said.

            “It’s all automated. Got a look while I was rooting around for somethin’ to destroy. You could run this ship with a skeleton crew from the bridge. Hel- _lo_ , what have we here?”

            Crosshairs crouched over the fallen frame of one of Lockdown’s crew, turning it over.

            “Kurosawa. Look familiar?”

            “ _Please_ stop calling me that,” Drift said testily, leaning over to look. So he might have watched a few too many Earth movies while in hiding. That didn’t mean… _huh_. “Definitely a bladed weapon.”

            “Unless you or Optimus was here when I weren’t lookin’, someone else is on this ship.”

            “The mech Tessa spoke of?”

            “Might be. Nice of ‘im to clear up a few baddies for us.”

            “An enemy of Lockdown’s is not necessarily a friend,” Drift said. “Keep your guard up.”

            It didn’t seem to be necessary when they ran into another corpse, then another further along.

            “Picking ‘em off one at a time,” Crosshairs observed, crouching next to the latest victim. “Smart.”

            Drift examined the injuries on the corpse. So elegant. So… familiar. An old hope, buried and practically forgotten, stirred inside him.

           _No_ , he warned himself. _You searched for so long. There was never any trace of him. Never hope. Hope is a lie._

            And yet, there had never been any trace of Lockdown either, just rumors and echoes. Was it entirely impossible…?

            “Gotta be close,” Crosshairs said. “Come on.”

            They encountered their first resistance near the bridge, one for each of them. Drift, still running high from the earlier battle, scrapped his opponent with slightly more force than he should have and found Deadlock’s grin on his face when he was done, but by the time Crosshairs sent his target to the Pit, he had pushed Deadlock back into the depths of his Spark.

            “Something is happening ahead,” he said. They could hear the sounds of fighting: blaster fire, clashing metal, the singing of blades.

            “Time to commandeer us a ship,” Crosshairs said, reloading his guns.

            They made a dynamic entrance onto the bridge, crashing their way into a pair of Lockdown’s crew taking cover behind a console. The bridge, when Drift looked up from stabbing a sword through his opponent’s throat, was scattered with a few offlined mechs, debris, and spilled energon. Only three mechs still fought near the captain’s seat. Two of Lockdown’s black-armored crew, and a stranger in armor so damaged and scuffed that it was barely white. A stranger who spun in a flash of blades as Drift watched, cutting down one of his enemies. A stranger whose shape and posture, the way he held his swords, the quiet gold glow of his optics, were so familiar that Drift’s Spark ached.

            Crosshairs took out the last guard standing, but Drift held out an arm to hold his fire before he could turn his guns on the white mech. The stranger swayed dangerously, leaking energon. He lifted his head towards the new arrivals.

            The swords he carried fell from his grasp. He staggered a step towards them, his optics only for Drift. One of his arms rose halfway. His mouth moved, but no sound came out.

            Drift’s own swords clattered forgotten to the deck. In the space of an instant he crossed the distance between them, moving as one in a trance.

            “You’re here,” he whispered. “It’s really you.”

            The white mech’s mouth curved in the echo of an old smile. He closed the gap between them, falling into Drift’s arms. It took a moment to realize he had fallen into stasis lock. Drift’s Spark flared in a chaotic whirl of disbelief and joy and terror.

            _You’re here._

            “What’s this, then?” Crosshairs asked from behind him. “One of your old ‘Con buddies?”

            “He is no Decepticon,” Drift said harshly, his emotions pressing out raw from his vocalizer. “He is Wing.”

 

* * *

 

_“Poetry?” Drift scoffs._

_“Yes, Drift,” Wing says, playful and patient as ever. “It’s a part of our culture.”_

_There’s a mischievous smile that invites Drift to share in the fun, a signal that this is a topic Wing doesn’t mind Drift mocking a bit._

_“If it’s supposed to be all about feelings and scrap, why are there so many rules?”_

_“Don’t think of them as rules. Think of them as a schematic, or a protoform. They’re more like guidelines. You’ll be surprised at how flexible they are.”_

_Drift could probably come up with a dirty joke about how flexible_ Wing _has proven in… various situations, but Wing is still explaining the rules. Sorry, the “guidelines.”_

_“A poem should tell a complete story,” Wing says. “And the best poems are meant to have a double meaning. The literal meaning is one thing, but there are layers.”_

_“I don’t like when things get complicated,” Drift grumbles. “I’m a warrior. I like things straightforward.”_

_Wing smiles and kisses him swiftly. “You are the least straightforward mech I know, Drift. This is really not difficult once you understand the format.”_

_“Fine,” Drift says. “Prove it. Make up a poem about me.”_

_“Gladly,” Wing says. He gathers Drift closer in his arms so Drift can feel the warmth of his Spark prickling through his energy field. Wing tips his head so that their helms touch. His optics are so close, so fond._

_“Every night, the stars think the sun has lost his way,” Wing murmurs, letting his mouthplates brush against Drift’s. “And then comes the dawn.”_

 

* * *

 

            “Tessa Yeager,” Drift says, down on one knee before a tiny scrap of a human, “I owe you a debt. _Anything_ in my power, name it.”

            She changed colors as the humans did when embarrassed. She reached out one tiny hand and touched his fingers. “I didn’t really do anything, Drift. He saved my life first. It was the right thing to do.”

            They had picked up Hound, Bumblebee, and the humans before flying the _Nox Terminus_ into international airspace. While Bumblebee and Joshua Joyce renegotiated the terms of sanctuary with the United States government, the others had done a complete exploration of the ship, cataloguing the prisoners, weapons, and engineering. All the while Drift had fretted over the heavy repairs Wing would need—“Especially after your kind slaughtered our medic,” Crosshairs said to the bald human, with enough venom in his voice to make the man step back—but then they had discovered the ship’s fully functioning medbay. A working CR chamber was the second most wonderful sight Drift had seen all day.

            “Haven’t seen one of these in centuries,” Hound said. “Just how old _is_ this ship?”

            “Very,” Drift said, already gently loading Wing’s unconscious frame into the CR chamber.

            “We could fix Bee’s voice with that thing,” Hound said. “Ratchet always said if we could just get our hands on one…”

            He trailed off. It was difficult to speak of Ratchet. None of them liked to remember that they could be the last four Autobots on Earth, with no new arrivals in five years.

            Cade was the closest thing they had to a medic, and he was overjoyed at exploring the medbay’s plentiful stock of medical tech, so they left him to keep an eye on the CR chamber and familiarize himself with the tech.

            Drift knew he was the best choice to help Bumblebee with the humans—he was less likely than Crosshairs or Hound to say something offensive—but he could not bring himself to go any further than the hallway just outside the medbay. He and Wing had been parted for so long. Now that he was here, by some miracle, Drift would never leave him alone again. On the third day, Tessa and Shane had come to visit.

            “I guess he must be pretty special to you,” Shane said as Drift got to his feet. Tessa’s face was still red.

            “Wing is important to me,” Drift said. Human languages could never express what Wing was to him. That was the beauty of Cybertronian: he could speak to any of his kind and carry his entire history with Wing in a few brief sentences, but it would take hours to explain to the humans. He settled on terms that they would understand. “He helped me find my way when I was lost. He taught me to fight as I do now. Lockdown stole him from me long ago, and I thought he was dead. Seeing him now is…” He struggled for words and instead fell into a familiar pattern. “From death into life; from the longest night, the sun; from darkness, the sky.”

            “Oh my _god_ ,” Shane said. “Another haiku? Okay. This is an intervention. Drift, we need to have a little talk about something we humans call ‘cultural appropriation.’”

            “I never hear complaining about Crosshairs’ accent,” Drift muttered.

            Tessa spoke up quickly. “So! They have poetry on Cybertron?”

            “They did, once,” Drift said. “Before we were soldiers, we had our own cultures like yours. Wing taught me. Several of your Earth cultures have poetry conventions similar to ours.”

            “Let me guess,” Shane said. “The Japanese.”

            “It is one of several of their traits that I admire,” Drift admitted. He explained, briefly and, he feared, much less clearly than Wing had, some of the guidelines and nuances of Cybertronian poetry, but could not adequately describe the subvocal aspects without resorting to his own language. “I chose to roughly translate my meaning into a haiku for _your_ benefit, not mine.”

            “I thought it was beautiful, Drift,” Tessa said.

            Drift clicked in embarrassment. “I am a beginner,” he said. “When Wing has his voice back, you will understand. He is much better, both at explaining and composing.” He wasn’t sure what possessed him to say what came next. “Every word he speaks is poetry to me.”

            Tessa smiled at him. “Are you two… I mean… are you in love with him?”

            Drift had to cross-reference the term through a surprising number of definitions in his English lexicon. “If by love you mean… he is one who I could stand beside every day for the rest of our lives, one who brings light into my life, one who I would give my own life to protect, then yes. I am ‘in love’ with him.”

            “That’s… that’s so romantic.”

            “I feel like I should be taking notes,” Shane said.

            The medbay door hissed open. Drift’s Spark flared at the sight of clean white armor, gold optics, a hesitant smile. He wanted to grab Wing and whirl them both around, giddy as a hatchling, but he held back, afraid that even now his hand might pass through and discover Wing was only an illusion. His hand moved forward anyway, as though to test it. Wing reached out and their fingers entwined. Solid. Real. _Alive_.

            “I flew through a storm and thought the sky had vanished,” Wing said in Cybertronian, layering his words with the weight of his emotions. He stepped closer, touching their helms together as he always had. “Now I find the sun.”

            Drift pulled him close, wrapping his arms tightly around the white mech’s shoulders. He wanted to feel Wing’s armor sliding on his, their energy fields mingling as easily as they once had. He wanted to feel the warmth of Wing’s familiar Spark. He wanted Wing in his arms until the Unmaker came and the world was remade.

            “My sky,” Wing whispered. “I am here, my sky.”

            “I thought you were dead,” Drift said in a chorus of grates and distressed chirps. “I looked for so long.”

            Wing crooned sadly. “I thought _you_ were dead.”

            He eased back just enough to look Drift over while staying as much in contact as possible. “You’ve changed. You look stronger.” He noticed the swords and smiled. “I see they’ve been in good hands.”

            “They are yours, Wing. Always yours. No matter whose hands they’re in.”

            “I’m feeling left out of the conversation,” Shane whispered.

            “Shut up,” Tessa hissed. “It’s been a long time for them.”

            Wing looked down towards the humans and a smile lit up his face. “Friends of yours?”

            Drift databurst him the information on this planet, its people and languages, and the events of the past decade. It was a large file that took Wing several moments to process. His smile faded slightly.

            “These humans are dangerous,” he said softly.

            “Many of them,” Drift agreed. “Like us, some are hostile. Some are allies. Some, friends.”

            He relinquished his hold on Wing to let the other mech kneel in front of the humans, reaching out a careful hand. Tessa put her small hands on his fingers.

            “Tessa Yeager,” Wing said in English. Amazing how he could make even their limited speech sound like a song. “Thank you.”

            “Thanks for helping me,” Tessa said shyly. “Are you okay now?”

            “Three of your days in a CR chamber won’t heal all my injuries,” Wing said. His energy field prickled, and Drift knew it wasn’t just his physical wounds that he meant. “But it will do me good to see the sky again. I would be honored if you would teach me about your planet.”

            “I’d be happy to,” Tessa said, surprised. “If…” She hesitated. “Drift said you’re a good teacher. I’d like to learn more about Cybertronian culture.”

          Wing’s optic shutters clicked. “Gladly. We… we’ve lost so much. Someone should remember us as we were.”

            “We’ll let you two catch up,” Tessa said, looping her arm through Shane’s.

            Wing’s hand found its way back into Drift’s as the organics left. He slipped back into Cybertronian. “I missed you, my sky.”

            Drift stepped close, nuzzling Wing’s head fins. “I’m here now. No one will ever take you from me again.”

            “Let them try,” Wing whispered, his optics burning. His mouthplates brushed Drift’s. “I will never leave you. Do you remember? Wherever you go, whichever bright star you chase…”

            “I remember,” Drift said, and kissed him again.

 

* * *

 

            _“I think I’m still not getting it,” Drift says, and not just because this poetry lesson has become an enjoyable catalogue of Wing’s entire body, every plate and curve and graceful point under his fingers, and Wing’s mouth has traced every seam on his head and neck. “Maybe you need to show me one more time.”_

_“One more?” Wing smiles and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Wherever you go, whichever bright star you chase, know that I love you.”_


End file.
